


In darkness enveloped

by kawuli



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, recovery is not linear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 01:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17951363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: I cannot see the path.Perhaps there is only abyss.Trembling, I step forward,In darkness enveloped.-Canticle of Trials 1:13Cullen spun to face the next of the demons pouring out of the blighted hole in the sky, reached for the skills he'd used instinctively since he was eighteen years old--and snarled under his breath when, for the hundredth time, he found aching emptiness instead of lyrium-fueled power.He couldn't even begin to count the dead--mages and templars indistinguishable as twisted corpses in the destroyed Temple, men he knew and those he didn't, fighting beside him one minute and fast-freezing bodies the next. They were all going to die, and he was fighting without skills he'd relied on for so long he couldn't remember what it was like without them.





	1. My enemies are abundant

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen-POV snapshots during Inquisition, focused on addiction and recovery.

Cullen spun to face the next of the demons pouring out of the blighted hole in the sky, reached for the skills he'd used instinctively since he was eighteen years old--and snarled under his breath when, for the hundredth time, he found aching emptiness instead of lyrium-fueled power. 

It had seemed like a good idea--no, it had seemed like the only choice he could make, leaving Kirkwall with Cassandra all those weeks ago. It had seemed like a good idea even with the headache whining and throbbing behind his eyes, even with the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, even, yes, even with the nightmares waking him gasping and sweaty in the cold mountain air. 

He was getting away, away from all of it, away from the twisted red lyrium statue that used to be his Knight-Commander, the woman he trusted to keep Kirwall safe until she turned paranoid and vicious and made him question everything he thought he knew. He was leaving, leaving all of it, doing something _better_ with Cassandra and Leliana and Divine Justinia. The Conclave would be the start of something new, and if he wasn't sure what that would look like he knew he wanted to be part of it. Him, Cullen Rutherford, not a Knight-Captain, not a Templar, just him. 

It seemed like a good idea right up until the sky broke open above the Conclave and the world exploded into fire and ice and demons everywhere. Since then he'd barely managed to break away from the fight, snatching half-meals and too-brief naps when the press of void-born creatures slowed for a moment. He couldn't even begin to count the dead--mages and templars indistinguishable as twisted corpses in the destroyed Temple, men he knew and those he didn't, fighting beside him one minute and fast-freezing bodies the next. They were all going to die, and he was fighting without skills he'd relied on for so long he couldn't remember what it was like without them. 

For what? What did it matter, his lofty ideals, when they were all going to die in the snow anyway? If he could save a few more of his men, didn't he owe it to them to use every means he could?

The pulsing rift quieted again, leaving the whine of magic and the screams of the injured, and Cullen sheathed his sword. No one tried to talk to him as he made his way back toward the tents where the remaining templars were camped. No one seemed to notice when he found the supply crates, when he pulled out a familiar jar of fine blue-white dust and took it back to his own tent. 

His hands shook as he pulled the philter out of his pack, set it on the unsteady boards he used as a table. He didn't have to think to prepare the draughts, hands steadying as they moved through long-familiar motions, until almost before he noticed there were four vials ready for him to use. 

As if on cue, he heard the crack of the cursed rift opening again, shouts as the demons poured through. He left one vial in the philter box, tucked two into his belt pouch, and poured the last into his mouth. 

It had never, _never_ , felt so good. Cold fire down the back of his throat and his whole body settling, chest expanding as his breath came deeper, familiar thrum as the lyrium caught the magic in the air. Tired as he was, Cullen almost laughed as he pushed open the tent flap and went back to the fight. 

It wasn't the same--weeks without lyrium couldn't be made up by one draught. But when he reached for the power it was there, and finding _something_ , even weakened, instead of sucking emptiness was like a dislocated shoulder had finally snapped back into place. 

They were still going to die, of course. Men were still dying all around him, but at least now Cullen could die with a clear conscience, knowing that he'd done everything he could. 

\---

The breach had calmed again, and Cullen was heading back toward his tent for that final vial, when Cassandra came running up, the dwarf with the crossbow and the weird elf apostate close behind her. And--someone else. Something on her hand flared bright green, crackling in time with the breach, and Cullen's exhausted mind found the connection--the girl they said fell out of the breach, the one who'd been hauled off, wrists bound, half-conscious. She was fully conscious now, unbound, and a mage's staff rose over her shoulder. Before he could wonder what in Andraste's name was happening, Cassandra was yelling at him, the girl was running toward the no-longer-quiet rift, and he was too busy fighting a Pride demon's crackling lightning whip to wonder anything at all. 

And then the rift closed. The breach still hung menacingly above them, but it was quiet. It stayed quiet, even as Cassandra rushed to catch the girl as she fell, as a cluster of people hurried back down the mountain, all talking at once. Cassandra went with them, of course, and Cullen was glad of that. The woman _knew_ things, and he wasn't going to be shamed for doing what he had to do, but he didn't want to have it out with a Seeker of Truth right now.

He wanted a bed, but that, too, had to wait until he could ensure that the wounded were getting the care they needed. 

When he finally made it to his tent, the philter was still lying open on the makeshift table, the last vial tucked neatly away inside. Cullen stopped short. Already he could feel the void opening up, the headache pressing behind his eyes. No one would blame him for--no. His jaw clenched tight, Cullen closed and latched the box, stowed it in his pack. He had made his decision. He would not be so weak as to turn back at the first real challenge. 

It was all he could do to shed his armor and boots before falling into bed. 

\---

Herald of Andraste, they were calling her. Cassandra had gone from wanting to kill the girl to damn near worshiping her in only a few hours. Cullen didn't even have a clear picture of her, had been too exhausted and harried to pay close attention at the breach (and lyrium keeps memories soft and hazy, and Maker, Cullen had almost forgotten how wonderful it had been _not_ to have everything he saw stab and tear at his gut). When he made it back to Haven she was still unconscious, and he didn't bother going to see her while she might well become just another ghost to haunt him. 

Cassandra found him, of course, found him early one morning drilling sword forms on the training field before the rest of the camp awoke. If this fight had taught him anything, it was how much he had to re-learn, how many lyrium-fueled shortcuts he'd been using without even realizing it. He saw Cassandra approaching out of the corner of his eye, but it was still a surprise to swing his sword down and around and be met with her blade, the clash of steel on steel sending shocks up his arm and spikes of pain exploding from his temples.

He stepped back, let his sword drop to rest point-down in the snow. He was not going to fight that woman, not right now. "What?" he snapped. 

Cassandra just studied him, up and down like she was his commanding officer. Perhaps she was--Cullen was quite sure that he wasn't hers, and the Inquisition's hierarchy had been poorly-defined even before the Conclave blew it to pieces. "You look terrible," she said, blunt as always. 

"I'm fine," he snarled, sheathing his sword. She kept watching him. "It's like trying to fight wrong-handed," he finally said. 

Cassandra nodded. "And people were depending on you." 

She knew. Of course she knew. Damned Seekers, always watching. "Yes," he said, rather than bothering with a denial. "I did what I had to." 

She nodded, finally looking away toward the chantry behind him, the mountains behind it. "When was your last dose?" 

Cullen felt his lip curl and bit back his snarl just in time. It _was_ her business, he'd asked her to make it her business. It was still excruciating. "Two days," he gritted out. He couldn't quite meet her eyes. 

"It's alright, Cullen," she said, and if she was being _nice_ to him, how pathetic must he look? 

"I know," he snapped, before she could continue. "I have work to do." He turned and walked toward the gates. 

Cullen remembered how bad it had been the first time around, but he had hoped that some of that was everything else--leaving Kirkwall, being trapped on a too-small ship, unable to go below decks without his throat closing, unable to sleep on deck with the wind and the noise and the nausea that wouldn't stop. 

Today perhaps wasn't quite as unbearable, but he had still only slept long enough for the nightmares to wake him up again, and he still found himself reaching out every few minutes to make sure no shimmering barrier separated him from the rest of the world. 

He wasn't trapped on a ship, but being trapped in Haven's Chantry with Leliana and Cassandra was bad enough. 

"All my reports say she was a trusted acolyte of the First Enchanter in Ostwick," Leliana was saying. "Everyone spoke highly of her." 

"She's a mage, she's lived in the Circle since she was a child, what does she know of strategy or politics?" Cullen asked.

"She handled Chancellor Roderick well," Cassandra said. "And lead us through the valley with skill. And she has the mark." 

"A few days ago you wanted to kill her!" Cullen had never seen Cassandra change her mind so quickly and so completely. Would not have thought it possible. "Now you want to put her in charge?" 

"She would make a good... representative," Josephine said, carefully. "We can be cautious with granting her authority, but the Herald of Andraste could create opportunities beyond what any of us can bring." 

"The Conclave was just blown up by magic," Cullen said. "And now we're going to follow a mage." 

"Yes, Commander," Leliana said. "For now." 

Cullen might have been able to convince one of them--though even that was hardly certain--but he knew better than to bother when all three women were against him. 

He leaned his hands on the big wooden table. "Alright," he said. "Maker preserve us." 

"If that's settled?" Josephine looked around the room and decided that it was. "There are just a few other matters..."

Cullen's jaw tightened. He straightened, ready to snarl or at least politely excuse himself, but--Cassandra was watching him. So instead he stepped back a pace so he could lean against the wall, old, rough, cold stone keeping him steady. He gritted his teeth and tried to listen.

\---

Two days later, the worst of the demon-whispers were beginning to fade. The harsh, insistent mountain wind whispered around the chantry, the snow fell in huge lazy flakes, and Cullen trained his soldiers on a frozen field more like the almost-forgotten village of his childhood than anything he'd seen at Kinloch or Kirkwall. His mind might still convince him he was back there, but the illusion shattered on contact with the outside world. And if he could keep a grip on his mind, he could ignore the rest of it. He was no frightened teenager, he was a man, and he had a job to do. 

A good thing, too, because a few hours after he made his way to the Chantry, their so-called Herald of Andraste woke up. 

His first, uncharitable thought was that it was no wonder he hadn't remembered her clearly. Nothing about her looked remarkable, save for the occasional flash of green from the mark on her hand. Other than that, she was a young, softspoken Circle mage from Ostwick. She could have been any one of the mages walking around the Gallows in Kirkwall--a bit shorter than Cassandra, brown hair pulled back, green-grey eyes wide, looking a little overwhelmed. And who wouldn't? 

Not for the first time--not even for the first time that day--Cullen wondered what he was getting himself into.


	2. I shall not fear the legion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mages come to Haven, the breach is closed, and everything goes to hell.

Cullen had hoped, stupidly, that Leliana was wrong. The whole mess of rebel mages couldn't possibly be coming here as _allies_ , not after the Kirkwall Chantry explosion and the disbanded Circles and the Conclave and the _Tevinter magisters_ for Andraste's sake. 

But no, here was the Herald, Cassandra at her side, telling them she'd invited a nest of hornets into the Inquisition. 

"What were you thinking?" he snapped. Cassandra, at least, should damn well know better. "Turning mages loose with no oversight?"

He didn't miss the Herald's almost-flinch at his anger, but Maker help him, he didn't care. 

"We need them to close the breach," the Herald finally snapped back. "We can't bring them here as prisoners and expect them to help. The Circles rebelled for a reason." 

Finally, Cullen gave up. She wasn't wrong. Not really. But he would be watching the mages carefully. There would be no blood magic, no Tevinter sorcery, no demon summonings here. He would make sure of it.

\---

It was a bad night. Every time he started to fall asleep, the nightmares returned, demons whispering in his ear, mages grinning horribly as they burned his friends alive, the sickening crack as a man, frozen by magic, shattered like glass. 

The moon was nearly full, the air cold and still, the town quiet. Peaceful, even if that peace was an illusion with the breach pulling at the sky. Cullen made his way to the gate and started walking. He could pretend it was a patrol of the walls, and certainly he kept an eye out for weaknesses, but in truth he simply needed to move to prove that he could. When he came back around to the practice field he felt calmer--sleep would likely remain impossible, but at least now he could breathe. 

Someone was out there. Someone with a staff, working over one of the practice dummies. Cullen moved closer, quiet, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. In the odd light, he had to get close before he recognized the Herald. 

She wasn't casting, though he could feel the magic she was holding back. It set his teeth on edge, and it was partly to ignore that feeling that he focused on how she moved. 

Cullen had trained enough recruits to recognize this. She was well-trained, moving through drills with practiced precision. But precision was not the same as comfort. She was _thinking_ too much about each movement. It was the difference between a skilled young recruit and a knight whose sword seemed an extension of his arm. 

And now he'd stood here too long, watching too closely, because she stopped, turned to face him. Her expression was guarded, but her hand on the staff gripped tight enough her knuckles went white. "Did you need something?" she asked, carefully polite.

Cullen had to smile at that. The middle of the night, a frozen field, the rest of the town asleep, and she was acting like this was a perfectly ordinary encounter. But of course he couldn't match her ease. "No! I mean...no, I was... patrolling, and saw someone practicing." His left hand reached automatically to rub at the tense knots of muscle in his neck. "And then, well, it's hard to stop being a trainer, I suppose." 

She relaxed a bit as he spoke, her grip loosening, relief softening her face. "I couldn't sleep," she said. "Redcliffe was... trying. And I think Cassandra is getting tired of rescuing me when swordsmen get too close." The joke was strained, but Cullen smiled anyway. 

"If you'd like..." He hesitated, then took a deep breath and went on. "I couldn't sleep either. If you want a... sparring partner."

She raised an eyebrow. "I think what I need is a teacher," she said. 

It spoke well for her that she recognized that--and wasn't too proud to admit it. "Well, I've never trained a mage, but I've fought a few." That got a smile. "I could give it a try."

The Herald hefted her staff. "Alright, Commander," she said. 

Cullen drew his sword. "When you're ready."

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. 

\---

Trevelyan kept coming to spar with him--neither of them had said anything about it, but it certainly seemed like a standing appointment. Wake up too early, demon-whispers chasing him, go out to the practice field, and if the Herald was in Haven she would meet him there.

Cullen had trained men to fight against mages, he'd had to study how mages fought, he'd played the mage for trainees to practice against--but he'd never imagined he'd ever be training a mage in close-quarters fighting. The Herald was quick, thought well on her feet, and used those skills to make up for what she lacked in strength. And she was a good student--Cullen wished his recruits paid attention half as well. 

It was good practice for Cullen, too. Even though the Herald wasn't using magic, she was a mage, fighting with a staff, and at first Cullen found himself reaching automatically for abilities he no longer had. Instincts built over more than a decade of training didn't disappear overnight. The Herald seemed to have a similar problem--on occasion, Cullen would feel the hand on his sword spark with electricity or start to grow cold, and then the feeling would disappear, with a muttered curse or apology. 

The Herald brought the same intensity and focus to meetings at the War Table that she did to training. Before Redcliffe, she had been--deferential, almost, there more to mediate arguments between Cullen and Leliana and Josephine than to lead them herself. Now, she listened just as intently--if not more so--but she was more confident, more decisive, and some subtle change in her bearing made Cullen feel as though he should salute when she entered the room. 

The rebel mages studied the breach. Even Vivienne, whose disdain for Fiona and her people was unmistakable, joined the cluster of robes in Haven's chantry talking about how best to direct the power of dozens of mages through one woman and into the Fade. Cullen stayed away. He didn't trust them. He didn't trust them, but he had to, because they were the only option. If they failed, he would--what? Go to Therinfal Redoubt and beg the Lord Seeker to help them, after all this? Not likely. No, this plan had to work, and so despite Meredith's warnings ringing in his ears, despite the still-vivid image in his mind of Uldred, grinning horribly and then _changing_ , Cullen tried to trust. 

Still, when they finally marched on the Temple, dread sat in Cullen's stomach like a stone. The Breach was calm when they reached it, stayed calm as they readied themselves, the Herald in the center, surrounded by a ring of mages. Cullen stationed soldiers behind them ready for whatever demons might come, archers perched among the ruined stonework. Cullen stood behind Fiona, and it took all his self control to keep his sword sheathed when the Herald stepped forward, the mages knelt, and the power surged toward the Breach, magic in the air like electricity, raising the hair on the back of his neck. The absence of a lyrium-fuelled response was an ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe, his heart pounding hard and fast as he gritted his teeth and waited. _Waited_ , Void take it all, while the Herald pressed forward like she was walking into a hurricane, hand raised, green fire flashing around her. 

And then, with a loud crash, a burst of light, it was over. The magic faded, and the mages stood, looking at one another in amazement. The Herald had fallen to the ground, and Cullen was surprised at how small she looked, how unprotected, without even a staff. He breathed a sigh of relief when Cassandra went to her, when she stood up, a little unsteady at first but whole. 

As soon as she looked up, the cheering started. Cullen joined in, but it felt hollow. Perhaps it was only because he'd played so small a part in the whole thing--the victory was not his to celebrate. Perhaps he was so accustomed to Kirkwall's slow-stumbling catastrophe he couldn't comprehend a success that wasn't marred by fire and death. Or maybe he was just tired. 

\---

It would be nice, Cullen thought later, watching the wave of torches flow into the valley, if someday his premonitions of disaster were wrong. 

The Order had come to Haven after all, but this... this was something out of his nightmares. Red lyrium crystals growing out of the skin of men and creatures that might have been men once, so much lyrium in the air he could taste it in the back of his throat, stronger even than the battlefield smells of blood and shit and fear. It was maddening, the lyrium smell and the crackle of magic sparking the kind of desperate _need_ that made the first days of withdrawal such torment. He didn't have time for this.

But they were holding. The slides had done the work of an army, burying untold numbers of men under rock and ice, and the Inquisition's patchwork forces were standing against those that remained. Cullen scrambled up onto the ramparts to try and make out what remained in the valley--

\--and almost had his head torn off by a fucking archdemon. 

Cullen hadn't seen the dragon in Denerim. He'd been busy scraping the corpses of his friends off the floors of the Circle Tower. He would have been happy to go to his grave without seeing anything like this monstrosity. Its head alone was longer than he was tall, a jaw that could easily swallow him shooting a stream of fire that set Haven's flimsy wooden buildings alight. He scrambled down to the gates, just in time to see the Herald race in and look around, eyes wild. 

She looked to him. Of course she did. He wished he had something to give her. 

But he didn't.

By the time they met again in the Chantry, he felt oddly calm. "We're dying," he told the Herald, the brutal clarity of it washing away the doubts, the regrets, the fears, leaving only ringing silence in his mind. "But we can decide how. Many don't get that chance."

When Chancellor Roderick started mumbling, Cullen ignored him at first. Then he realized what the man was saying, under the rambling about a summer pilgrimage, and fate. There was a way out. The man who had up until now been nothing but a nuisance might just save all their lives.

Him, and the Herald of Andraste, who had not hesitated to offer herself as a distraction for the monsters. 

"What about it, Cullen?" she asked, "Will it work?"

Cullen felt the hopeless clarity disappear as he tried to think: how long would it take to get everyone out? What chance would they have in the mountains? More chance than they'd have here, and that would have to be good enough. They didn't have time for doubt. They needed to move.

"Possibly," Cullen said, and then, his thoughts rushing too fast, coming out of his mouth before he could stop them, "What of your escape?"

The Herald--Evelyn--looked away. Cullen was an idiot. There wouldn't be an escape. Cullen tried to think of something, anything that might give her a chance. "Perhaps you will surprise it...find a way?"

She didn't bother to respond, just met his eyes, smiled a little, nodded. For a second he wished he could-- but there was no time for that, either. He turned to the frightened people behind him, directed them to follow Chancellor Roderick, called for a few soldiers to help with the trebuchet, then turned back to the Herald. "Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the treeline," he said. That would be high enough to be clear of the slides, he thought. Hoped. 

She nodded, calm, determined, took a deep breath and headed for the front doors. "If we are to have a chance-- if _you_ are to have a chance," she glanced back at him and he met her eyes one last time, "let that thing hear you." 

And then she was gone, and he had work to do. 

It was a brutal climb. Steep, rocky, slick with snow and ice, they picked their way along the path excruciatingly slowly, while the dragon's scream echoed through the trees. Was the Herald already dead? Were the Elder One and his dragon on the way to them already?

Finally, the trees began to thin out. The wind picked up, too, blowing snow into their faces, sharp pinpricks on his skin, so cold it ached. Cullen waited for the last of the group to pass, following Roderick and that strange boy, and then sent up a flare. 

Minutes later he saw three people running toward him. Iron Bull and Varric were obvious, even as shadows in the gloom, but who was the third? Was there a staff over their shoulder? 

And then, sudden and shockingly close, the dull thud of the trebuchet's projectile hitting the snow, an explosion and the roar of one final avalanche. 

\---

They made camp in the first semi-sheltered place they could find, a bowl ringed by higher peaks that blocked the worst of the wind. Leliana and Josephine had their heads bent together, talking quietly, and Cassandra joined them. Cullen busied himself setting up some kind of organized camp, and when his men were working smoothly enough that he was no longer anything but a nuisance, he paced. 

He refused to hope. An archdemon, or whatever it was, an Elder One, whatever _that_ was, and a Maker-damned avalanche. She was dead, buried under rocks and snow so deep that there wouldn't even be a body for the pyre. She was dead, and they would have to fight this new enemy without her. 

It shouldn't matter. Who was she, anyway? A mage girl, raised in the Circle since childhood. Hardly a good candidate to lead an army. The Breach was closed, they no longer needed that mark on her hand. Evelyn Trevalyan was a brave young woman who gave her life to save all these people, and that was the end of the Herald of Andraste's story. 

But even as the camp quieted, as exhausted, frightened people found places to rest, Cullen paced. He'd passed exhaustion hours ago. Instead, the world felt faraway, time irrelevant, all his concentration devoted to the pattern of his feet. From the fire, to the camp's edge, around toward the now-invisible path toward Haven, back to the fire. 

Finally, as he reached the edge of the camp for what might have been the tenth or the hundredth time, he heard something. Footsteps, halting and uneven in the deep snow. 

As he ran toward the sound, it stopped, and when he reached the lip of their sheltered bowl he saw the Herald fall to her knees. 

She was half-conscious when he reached her, breathing hard, teeth chattering with the cold. She tried to stand up, leaning against him, but stumbled. In the end he lifted her like a child, held her against his chest as he made his way into the camp. 

Everyone still awake was staring at him--or rather, at her--the crackling of the fire the only sound until one of the Chantry sisters seemed to wake up from a trance, rushed to their makeshift infirmary and motioned him over toward an empty cot. 

He felt oddly reluctant to set her down. 

As soon as he had, he was herded away by the healers converging to talk in low urgent tones. 

He felt lost. Dizzy. He would wonder if this were a dream, but in dreams Cullen would never be this lucky. If it had been a dream, the Herald would have transformed into a demon the moment he reached her. So this had to be real--impossible, unthinkable, but real. 

"Cullen."

He looked up. Cassandra was standing, arms crossed, watching him. How long had she been there? "What?" 

"Get some rest, before you collapse." 

Cullen looked at her blankly, unable to quite fathom the process involved. 

Cassandra sighed. She glanced around, then called out to one of the officers standing stunned, watching the healers. "You--show the Commander to his tent." 

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, forced himself to think. "Cassandra, I'm--"

"Go," Cassandra snapped.

"It's just here, Commander Cullen," the young woman said, walking toward one of the dozens of identical tents. 

"Thank you," Cullen said, feeling displaced and strange. She smiled, touched a fist to her chest and walked back to the fire. 

\---

When Cullen woke up, the sun was high in the sky and Leliana and Josephine were bent over a table near the center of camp, studying a map. "We went west from Haven, and north..." Leliana was saying. 

"There are so few useful landmarks here," Josephine sighed. 

They looked up as Cullen came over. "You're Fereldan," Josephine said, "Can you make sense of this?" 

Cullen shook his head. "I don't know this area." 

Josephine sighed, looked back down. "How are we supposed to find this Elder One if we don't even know where _we_ are?"

"Don't you think that's getting a little ahead of ourselves?" Cullen asked. "We barely escaped from him and now you want to go looking again?"

"I think we should head west," Leliana spoke up. "We won't be welcome in Redcliffe, maybe not at all in Fereldan." 

"And Orlais is so hospitable?" Cullen shot back. "That would take us right the way through the Frostbacks."

It continued like that, off and on, for the rest of the day. Nobody knew what to do, and the elation at having survived was being overtaken by the realization of how much they'd lost, how precarious their situation truly was. Cullen was unfortunately rather familiar with the pattern. 

\---

It was the Herald who saved them. Again. If Redcliffe had left her determined to succeed, Haven had given her the confidence to truly lead. One afternoon he looked up and saw her beckoning to them from a ridge, smiling, with the sun behind her, and he hurried forward to see an improbable castle in the clouds. Solas was standing to one side, looking like the proud owner of a particularly clever dog, but Cullen couldn't take his eyes off the Herald. She was watching the castle, but must have felt his gaze, because she looked over at him. For the first time since Cullen had known her, she looked relaxed--surprised, amazed, and happy. Cullen wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her close, but since he couldn't do that, he smiled back, rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Good work, Trevelyan," he said. 

She rested one hand over his. "We made it," she breathed, laughter in the words. "I can hardly believe it." 

Cassandra and Leliana rushed up then, exclaiming over the massive fortress just waiting for them to claim it. Cullen stepped back, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. When he looked up, Solas was watching him with a knowing little smile. He acknowledged Cullen with an almost imperceptible nod, then backed away, vanishing into the growing crowd.


End file.
